Untitled
by Jen
Summary: Rent-fic. A return to NYC. Chapter 5 up.
1. Default Chapter

The combination of having stumbled upon Rent-

**The combination of having stumbled upon Rent-fic very recently and a trip to NYC to see Rent on Monday night, I got this little idea into my head and during a lull at my summer job scribbled this down. I'm not too fond of the beginning (and it is short, I realize), but I do believe I know where this is going. Takes place three years after the end of the play and is from Mark's (my fav character g) POV. And yes, it is untitled. I rarely title pieces until they are finished and usually don't post them until they are either, but I may need a little push with this story. Not my first fic, but my first Rent one, so be gentle :). Okay, I'll stop rambling now . . .**

Boston sure is cold this year. 

I eye the frost on my car windows.

Ha, my car. I own a car now. 

So much has changed. I look to my right and eye my suitcase.

New York, here I come again.

Why did I ever leave?

The answer's in front of my face as I finger a faded photo stuffed in the dashboard. Three years ago seems like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

And I just walked away.

That Christmas had been perfect. Film-worthy. Un-fucking-believable. Mimi wasn't dead. Roger found his song. Collins was finally back to his old self and for once, I had focus in a film. Even Maureen and Joanne were happy. It could have been a goddamn Hallmark card. Now where were we all? Scattered. Shattered.

Separated.

I guess I should admit I started the chain by letting my emotions out. Me, the guy who used to pride himself at not letting others see his feelings, exploded. The result?

Shattered.

Roger and Mimi were in love. I filled reels of film with their images because true love seemed so rare. Collins and Angel had it. Hell, I even admitted that Joanne and Maureen had more love in their relationship then Maureen and I ever did. So I filmed the love.

Perhaps because I longed for it myself.

Roger was right. It is lonely behind a camera. Lonely being an observer. Someone who simply watched, but never participated. Who saw the spring, but never smelled the flowers.

Spring's for lovers.

I shot the most footage in spring.

But everyone knows spring has its showers.

It poured that spring. Literally. The rain came down, trapping everyone inside. Roger and Mimi had no problem passing the time. When I was still with Maureen we had no trouble "passing" the time either. Rain or not spring's love bug never fails.

I simply sentenced myself to searching through every single piece of film I'd ever shot.

"You sure shot a lot of shit," Roger had jokingly commented on one of the few times he and Mimi emerged from the bedroom. She had been at his heels before jumping ahead and plopping down next to me on our already hanging-by-a-thread couch.

"Not everything's Oscar worthy at first glance," she shot back at Roger with a smile. He joined us on the couch, his arm immediately snaking around Mimi's waist.

"No, it is shit," I admitted with a smile. For the rest of the day, we barely moved off that couch except to change reels. We laughed at some of the shots, from Benny's pathetic college attempt to hit on a girl to Maureen's first protest - complete with chicken feathers. We were silent during others, like Angel. Both reached for the reel when we at my first film, made at age fourteen. My parents were fighting. It was two months before their divorce. 

It was a great rain day. Sure, the next day Mimi and Roger went back to their own thing, but I was content to have my friends.

I had captured a lot of good moments on film -- even the scheduled monthly break-up and make-up between Maureen and Joanne and Collins back teaching at NYU, slipping tidbits about Angel into his lectures. I sat back and watched Roger and Mimi grow closer - it seemed as if they hadn't had a fight in ages. Mimi quit her job at the Cat-Scratch Club and was waitressing and most important of all was clean. It had been hard the first couple of months, but Roger was there, and I stayed on the watch out and guarded the door when Roger couldn't. Roger was getting his band slowly back together and with Collins sporadic ATM handouts, we could manage to afford simple luxuries, like a semi-stocked fridge.

Of course, rent was always last on our list when it came time to decide where the money went.

Somehow though, Benny stopped minding. I think it had something to do with Alison and the "pitter-patter of little feet," though he'd never admit it. One thing was for sure: he and Mimi were though. I had the feeling Alison had pushed Benny out only to reel him back in - for good. His Range Rover barely saw our streets.

Not that one of us complained. 

I slammed the car door shut and stared out the windshield a second before gripping the wheel. The car had been a quick and stupid decision. It barely ran, and had seen the inside of a garage more than it had the street. 

And now I hoped it would hold up to New York. Back to the place where I made another quick and stupid decision. 

I passed out of Boston. 95 south to New York.

The car was easy to fix.  
  
  
**Like it? Hate it? Want more? Let me know . . .**


	2. Chapter 2

I apologize for the time and (

**I apologize for the time and (very) short length of this chapter. Due to some computer problems that I am currently figuring out, I lost some files and am still trying to retrieve them all. Plus the story is beginning to take (at least in my outline and other parts am I working on) a life of its own, varying a bit from my original idea. Anyone else have that happen to them? :) Also, I had an idea for a scene which I scribbled down - I'm currently trying to fit it in. As always feedback is very nice :)**

_**Chapter 2**_

  
It was snowing

Snowing as I passed through Connecticut. . .

> _I should go  
Hey, it's beginning to snow_

So different from spring. I wanted to bang my head against the wheel and let the car spin out of control. Spin off the bridge I was crossing and intothe water below . . .

I could see it now. Man commits suicide by driving his car off a bridge. Full coverage at eleven.

At least then an idea of mine would see decent air-time.

My camera, the same 16 mm camera, lay across the backseat. I had no idea why I brought it. In my tiny apartment in South Boston, it occupied a box.

I hadn't shot anything in 2 and a half years, shortly after I left New York. Shortly after I left the loft, the door slamming behind me, and my feet carrying me and the fifty dollars I had to my name to a bus station. I chose Boston. I never knew why. Maybe because it was close to Providence. I went to Brown at my father's insistence. He wanted me to become the traditional Jewish doctor like him. I tolerated it for 4 years, until graduation when he and I got into a fight over what I should do with my life and I launched my biology textbook - with med-school acceptance letter inside - into his brand-new in ground pool. My twenty-nine year old stepmother (product of the mid-life crisis) looked on in disbelief. Needless to say, our practically non-existent relationship became completely non-existent after that. 

I remember my one hesitation. Before heading to Port Authority I looked back up at the window. I saw the light go off. For a split second, I thought maybe I was being unfair.

I still walked away.

That spring was beautiful. Once the rain cleared, thing got easier. With Benny off our backs, tensions seemed to ease. Roger no longer need reminders to take his AZT and I was at a creative peak. I filmed, tried to edit my first film perfectly, and scribbled away at an original screenplay, something I hadn't done in a while. The last products of such a project ended up in the fire – literally – with Roger's posters to heat a freezing apartment. 

I was drawing storyboards (pathetic ones at that – I can't draw for shit) when Mimi flew in the door. Roger followed close behind her. I couldn't even tell if she was upset, she moved so fast. I heard the bathroom door shut and braced myself for another fight. Instead I looked up to see Roger tentatively knocking on the door. Something was wrong with that picture. If Mimi was upset, it was usually because they werefighting. And when that happened, she'd run into the bathroom and lock the door, and he'd pound on it, yelling. She'd yell back. The cycle would continue until they both tired of screaming ateach other.

This was different.

I heard Roger ask.

It takes two minutes, Roger, not two seconds, Mimi answered through the door.

Roger moved from the door and began pacing. Pacing. Shit, Roger doesn't just pace.

What's up?

His head picked and he noticed me for the first time. He paused. How long have you been here?

Since you came in. I was answered by silence as Roger threw another glance toward the bathroom door. Something was up. I searched for something else to say to him when the bathroom door opened. Both of us turned to face Mimi.

she said, and just as Roger had, noticed me sitting on the couch. She smiled tentatively. Hi, Mark.

Roger repeated. She nodded.

Positive. What the hell were they talking about? I watched Roger's face turn into a smile as he pulled Mimi close to him and kissed her.

Then it hit me.

Mimi was pregnant.

**Chapter 3 coming soon . . .**


	3. Chapter 3

Untitled, 3

**This chapter kinda just wrote itself and I may revise it later, but I just decided to post it and see what happens. It's all kinda flashback, so I don't know if it works. Also I hope I still have the right timeline in mind here. I'll stop babbling now . . . :)**

**Chapter Three**  
  
Mimi was pregnant. At the time, it seemed like a joyous occasion. Both Mimi and Roger were smiling, neither disturbed nor frightened of the situation there were now in.  
  
What the fuck were they thinking?!  
  
A baby. To be raised in a place where it parents barely support themselves. Fact in the fact that they are both HIV positive. Sure, I'd read in a magazine once that not all babies born to a HIV parent have the virus, but damn it, still, the odds were stacked against them.I stayed silent and managed to plaster a smile across my face. I had to. I don't explode. Mark's the stable one, and what's more stable then a family?  
  
Fuck.  
  
Inside, perhaps, I realized my feelings weren't completely rational. I mean, Roger's not the first person I'd picture as a father, but he's also not the last. He and Mimi relationship seemed to have settled into that comfortable "this might be forever" stage. But, the ever present but, with both of their unpredictable personalities it could change next week.  
  
The baby would still be here.  
  
Everyone else seemed ecstatic. Even Maureen jumped at the Mimi's news.   
That surprised me a bit. During the time we were together, she had one pregnancy scare. She went as far as to buy the test. God, she was nervous. Pacing, and muttering things like "Jesus Christ, Mark, I can't be pregnant" and "we'd make such shitty parents." Children were not part of her plan. I'd never seen anything like it. She was so vulnerable. She was never like that; I was the vulnerable one, and she was in charge, her and her demanding ways, the ways that got me out of bed early to help her with another protest. She wasn't pregnant then and four months later our romantic relationship was history.  
  
I filmed most of Mimi and Roger's joy, joking that with me around, their kid would be the most photogenic kid in New York.  
  
It hit me a week later.  
  
I wandered the city that, camera in hand, filming randomly, looking for inspiration in a city, that, at least in my eyes, lacked it. I ended up near a playground. Kids played.  
  
I realized I was terrified.  
  
I knew that someday I'd be one of the last ones left. That HIV, AIDS, would take Roger, Mimi, and Collins, just like it took Angel. Now, Roger and Mimi would bring a child into this world that could suffer the same fate.  
  
And someone else I was close to would be gone.  
  
When I was in third grade, my best friend, David, was absent from school. It seemed like no big deal, though I missed him at lunch time. As I walked home from school with Cindy, I talked about David and Cindy just stared at the ground, I didn't think anything of it. I was eight. She was twelve and doing weird things, like kissing boys. So what if she stared down at the ground?  
  
My mother was sitting at the kitchen table when we got in. Strange, since her soap was on.  
  
"Honey, I need to tell you something."  
  
Her voice cracked.  
  
At age eight I learned how hard it is to lose a friend. After that I told myself to not get close, to just observe, for it was easier to just watch then to feel.  
  
Filming was such an easy way to hide. Of course, the detachment wasn't just a product of David - it was a combination of things: David, my parent's divorce, Cindy's elopement at nineteen, my failed relationship with my serious college girlfriend, my ever fleeting relationship with my dad. When I came to NYC, friendship was beginning to seem like a good idea again.  
  
I had left Brown, medical school and my father behind. I knew Benny from there - we were roommates for a year. We were friends and I listened and participated in his ranting of a virtual interactive studio. However, I still held an air of distance. I don't think Benny ever noticed.  
  
I still don't know how he convinced me to come to New York City. After all, New York was the state of some of the biggest failings of my life.  
  
New York City was different. Before I knew it, the loft was home, I was ignoring my mother's constant phone calls, and I was introduced to Collins. We hit it off right away and had some great serious conversation about everything from current events to philosophy.   
  
Roger arrived a month later.  
  
We needed another roommate to cut costs, since none of us had steady jobs. Collins was trying for a teaching position, and Benny was spending a lot of time with the landlord's daughter Allison. I filmed, at the time naively believing I could get somewhere.  
  
Roger needed a place to stay.  
  
At first he and I clashed. He loved fast-paced life, parties, clubs, the world of a musician. I was slower paced, not really drinking, and veering away from loud and large places.   
  
We never realized that we needed each other for balance. It changed the night I met Maureen. Roger was with a new girl - young and sweet, but with a seductive edge that even I was charmed by. Young she was, hell, April turned out to be seventeen when Roger first started seeing her. It was April who introduced me to a, as she put it, "wild-spirited friend."  
  
I fell for Maureen the second I saw her.  
  
I was such a sucker.  
  
That's what Roger said the next morning when I walked out of my bedroom the next morning.  
  
Coming from a person who hardly knew me, I was quick to defend myself. Maureen was great. At the time she was part of a life that I new little about. She was spontaneous and beautiful - and interested in me. I didn't have luck like that.  
  
What started as a simple comment, escalated, until I backed away. I'm stupid. Roger was bigger then I was.  
  
He started laughing.  
  
"God, Mark, you're so easy," he had said.   
  
After that, the ice was broken. We talked and saw we could use each other. I was his voice of reason, he was my push toward life. We meshed well, and I had a best friend again.  
  
I still kick myself for not noticing right away that he was using. Fuck, it was right in front of me, but I was too wrapped up in Maureen at the time. I was in love with her, and let my emotions blind my judgment.  
  
Never again.  
  
Six months later, April was dead. The young vibrant girl whose smile could once cheer up the most depressed person, was dead.  
  
And Roger was an addict. With HIV.  
  
Distance crept back in.

> _You're always preaching not to be numb  
When it's how you thrive_

Sure, I helped Roger through withdrawal. Shortly after April's death, Collins gotten a position at MIT and was reluctant to take it.   
  
I told him to. Said I could handle Roger. By that point I was physically holding Roger to the apartment, not allowing him a step outside, for fear that he'd be at his dealer before I could count to ten. I told Collins that the job was for his own good. Looking back, I was pushing away. He was sick. HIV. He got it before Roger, but it didn't seem real until Roger had it and April slit her wrist because of it.  
  
I still saw blood in the bathroom whenever I walked in.  
  
Maureen moved out. Maybe she sensed my distance, but I think it was the fact that had already caught her cheating six times. After the pregnancy scare, Maureen was even more scarce - she was spending more and more time with a friend she'd met, Joanne. I should have seen something coming - Maureen got bored easily. It made sense that she moved on from me to women.  
  
Yeah right.  
  
My life was crumbling beneath me.  
  
But it had gotten better - that year that followed showed all of us a little more about life.  
  
Mimi's pregnancy dragged up feelings I thought I'd gotten past.  
  
"The past just buries itself," Cindy once me in the mist of her own failing marriage. It was during the one time I visited home for Thanksgiving. "You can't get away from it. It's like family. No matter what, it's still a part of you."  
  
I never realized how true my sister's words were.  
  
  
  
**Chapter four coming soon . . .  
Like it? Hate it? I am continuing this thing for nothing? Let me know :).**


	4. Chapter 4

I have just discovered that this story is going to be a lot longer than I thought it was going to be.

**Okay, I officially hate my computer - it and its 'let eat Jen's files' attitude. Jeez, I was ready to drop it out the window. Okay, moving on from my computer, I have just discovered that this story is going to be a lot longer than I thought it was going to be; I have no idea how many chapters it will be. Oh well, it's taking a life of it's own on my hard drive. I wrote this chapter and chapter five, and while I felt there may be some bugs, I decided to post chapter four. Chapter five should be up as soon as I tweak it some more. I hope this chapter stays in character and such, for it's got a big Mark/Roger fight. Enough babbling, I'm just gonna post the thing . . . :)**

**Chapter Four**  
  
I cringe when I see the sign.  
  
Welcome to New York.  
  
I am a mere thirty minutes away from NYC, the loft, a life I knew everything about only two and a half years ago.  
  
There was only two months between my realization, and, well, Boston.  
  
Every time I saw Mimi run to the bathroom because of morning sickness, I felt fear creep up on me. Roger's smile drove me to the solitude of my room.  
  
I knew what I was doing.  
  
Distance.

> _You pretend to observe and create  
When you really detach from feeling alive_

No one noticed at first. I would slip out whenever talk about the baby came up. I had lunch with Joanne one afternoon and she mentioned Roger and Mimi.  
  
I changed the subject.  
  
Maybe Joanne noticed something was wrong then. Maybe not. I left the loft often, claiming filming as the reason.  
  
Truth was, I never shot anything.  
  
I just wandered, trying to convince myself that Cindy was wrong, that I could get past this.  
  
I missed David more than ever.  
  
It was July. I walked back into the loft after another useless stretch of wandering. Roger was there alone, on the couch, his guitar in hand. Pamphlets from the clinic around the block were scattered around him.  
  
The door clicked behind me.  
  
"Hey." Roger looked up at me, the back down.  
  
"Hey."  
  
I did a quick survey of the room. "Where's Mimi?"  
  
"Work." He absently played the same chord over and over again. I pushed some of the clutter away to sit next to Roger. One particular piece of paper struck me and I picked it up.  
  
The HIV positive child.  
  
Shit.  
  
My eyes fell to Roger again. His mood told me he'd read it. I let silence fall between us and Roger stopped playing. His eyes strayed toward me and the pamphlet in my hand.  
  
"Christ, Mark. Don't ask." He got up abruptly. I just sat there staring down. I was afraid to open my mouth. If I did, I knew I couldn't offer reassurances.  
  
"It's the real world, Roger," I found myself saying before I could even think about it. Roger turned back to me, walked over, and grabbed the paper out of my hand.  
  
"Yeah, well, the real world sucks." I wondered if he and Mimi had gotten into a fight over the subject. I let my gaze fall to his again and I saw it. The "just tell me there's just hope, Mark" look. The look that started back during his withdrawal. The days filled with reassurances made to bloodshot eyes. His diagnosis and all the "It can be okay, Roger"s and the "don't act like you're done with life" and "you need to get out of the house."  
  
He needed another reassurance.  
  
And I was supposed to be the dependent one.  
  
And, fuck, I couldn't give reassurance to him. Instead, I grabbed the pamphlet back from him.  
  
"Jesus, Roger, I can't." I flung it back at him. "I don't know if it'll be okay. This isn't a fucking reminder to take your AZT. This is a risk. A risk that be more life-changing than drugs, than -"  
  
If I'd been wise, I would have stopped there.  
  
"Shit, even if you and Mimi manage to have a baby that isn't HIV positive, what's gonna happen when you're --, you're, when you and Mimi -" My voice cracked. I couldn't say the word. I got up from the couch.  
  
"And what if, more realistically, this kid is sick? Not only would you and Mimi worry about day to day infections, but you'd have a baby to worry about too."  
  
Roger just stared at me. I needed to stop. I knew I did. I knew I needed to or this conversation would move far beyond Mimi's pregnancy. It would move into territory I couldn't -- wouldn't - face.  
  
"Don't tell me anything I don't fucking know!" Roger countered back. He walked toward the door. "I need to go out."  
  
"That's right, walk out. Walk out of every potentially serious conversation. Just like I'm sure you did when Mimi wanted to have this conversation." I guessed at the last one. Figured Mimi was the one who went down to the clinic. Shit, I was getting aggressive here. I should just back away, change the subject, take a gentler tone . . .  
  
Roger stood frozen at the door, his hand on the knob. He turned it.  
  
"Right, walk away. Mark's crazy. Just fucking crazy. Go."  
  
Silence.  
  
"You should fucking talk."  
  
He was now face to face with me. The loft door was swung open and forgotten.  
  
Just back away, gentler tone . . .   
  
"Me? I'm not the one that's trying to ignore a conversation that borders on reality?"  
  
"Reality? What the fuck do you know about reality, Mark? Behind that fucking camera; it doesn't change. Film, joke it off, fill Roger's head with false reassurances, detach from the world around you. All of a sudden reality pops into Mark's head. Reality's been here a long time, Mark. Who's been avoiding it now!"  
  
He was shouting.  
  
Back away . . .  
  
"Forgive me. I don't have as much fucking sorrow in my life as Roger Davis."  
  
Gentler tone . . .   
  
I was ignoring my own advice.

> _Perhaps it's because I'm the one of us to survive_

Roger wasn't letting down.  
  
"The great Mark Cohen and his fucking advice. Think he knows about life. The guy who says he spends his trying to get closer, when he really just backs away. Same old thing. Months later and it hasn't changed. No wonder you're fucking alone, Mark."  
  
His words echoed through my head.  
  
Alone . . .  
  
I snapped.  
  
"Fuck you, Roger." I picked up my camera as I spoke. I headed toward my bedroom. "Fuck you!" Before I knew it, I was throwing things into a box. Roger was at my door.  
  
"Christ, dramatics," he commented.  
  
I dropped my camera into the box, picked it up and walked past Roger. I stopped at the couch and turned to him.  
  
"You know what, Roger? It won't be okay. It'll be fucked up. And that kid will just have to deal with the fact that he's got selfish shit for a father."  
  
I walked out the door, down the stairs, giving that one glance up before heading toward the subway.  
  
New York was no longer a part of my life.  
  
Today, I realize that my trip wasn't much different then Santa Fe.  
  
I'm such a hypocrite.  


**Chapter five coming soon . . .  
As always, comments are accepted very gratefully, as they help the writing process :)**


	5. Chapter 5

After a very busy weekend,

**After a very busy week, I finally finished tweaking chapter five. On a good note, I'm seeing Rent in NYC again on August 14th (thank you Student Advantage for the half price deal - it sure helps a financially challenged college student), so hopefully the countdown to the show will help my creativity :). This chapter doesn't have much action (and a point I will explain later), but I'm going to get to Mark's return soon, I swear (at I keep telling myself that). . . g Oh, and I have realized I have forgotten the standard disclaimer so here it is:**

**Not mine. Wish they were, because then I'd probably have a lot more money and lot more fun :).**

**Chapter 5**  
  
Boston, in a way, was a combination of two worlds.  
  
The upscale shopping, the nice homes, the front of nicely dressed people, proudly expressing their upper middle class status reminded me of Scarsdale.  
  
Boston also reminded me of New York.  
  
From the moment I arrived at South Station, I knew I wasn't going to go back to New York - not Scarsdale and not NYC.  
  
Still, I felt lost and out of place in Boston.  
  
I only had a box filled with a small portion of my life. I suddenly had no idea where to go. A name flashed in my head.  
  
Greg Garrison.  
  
He, Benny, and I hung together at Brown. However, Greg and I were nothing alike. He was a big man on campus, studying law, and reveling in success and wealth. Benny was trying to get him to cash in on his studio idea. Greg came from money and would die from money, most likely, so Benny pounced on him. I think it was the only reason he was around - Benny knew how to be a kissass when he wanted to.  
  
Greg tried to convince me to stay in school, to follow my father's ideals, to welcome success and money into my life.  
  
Sure, I wanted success, but it was far from Greg's idea of success.  
  
I left for New York with Benny.  
  
Greg and I hadn't spoken since.  
  
Though Benny, I knew he lived in Boston. Benny and I may no longer be friends, but we talked - small talk about the old days and such. I also knew that Greg was currently married to my old college girlfriend. 

Another reason I saw no loss in our non-contact friendship.   
  
Joan was wonderful. I fell for her as fast as I fell for Maureen. Jeez, I had a history of distancing myself with people, and maybe Joan was no exception. I didn't completely pour my heart out to her; I would just adore her. Funny, now I see I basically did the same thing with Maureen.  
  
I gave up on dating for a while when we broke up.  
  
Still, I was alone in the middle of South Station, with nothing but a box filled with a few pieces of my life. Maybe Greg could push me in a direction. After all, starting anew was sounding nice.  
  
Starting over . . .  
  
_Alone._  
  
Roger's words would forever echo in my head.   
  
_Past is past. Cindy is wrong._ I had to repeat that to myself over and over again as I found a pay phone and dug through my pockets hoping I at least had a quarter and that Greg's number would be listed.  
  
Joan picked up the phone.  
  
Shit. Forget about the past . . .  
  
"Hi. Joan." Pause. Swallow. "It's Mark Cohen." Swallow. "From Brown, remember? Well, I -"  
  
"Mark?" I heard hesitation. I knew she remembered. Who could forget? We were together for two years.  
  
Joan was the typical upper-class woman. She was ambitious, but had a sense of determination, that was not unlike Maureen's. I was far over her; I knew this. But I was also over Maureen. It didn't mean that it didn't hurt each and every time I saw her with Joanne.  
  
Shit. What hole did I just dig myself into?  
  
I almost hung up the phone.  
  
"Mark?" she repeated. Pause. "It's good to hear from you." Before I could blink I heard her talking to Greg and I was getting directions to their apartment. After a T ride, I was standing in front of beautiful Boston estate. It reminded me of my parents.  
  
Back in Scarsdale, I grew up in a nice house, part of the community that just screamed "materialistic." My mother was a lover of "things." She would spend money without even pausing to think about it. My father hated that.  
  
For a second, I was having a nice normal memory of my family.  
  
For a second.  
  
I noticed rips in my family shortly after David's death. Every time my father came home from work late, mom would go out and buy something.  
The night he claimed he was just doing paperwork.  
  
New clothes.  
  
The night he came home late claiming a patient crisis.  
  
Jewelry.  
  
The night he came home late with lipstick on his collar.  
  
She called a contractor to redo the kitchen.  
  
The night he didn't come home at all, though, she brought nothing.  
  
She started smoking again instead.  
  
By the time the divorce rolled around, she was a mess. A woman with far too many material things and a defeated spirit.  
  
I couldn't stand to be around the person she'd become. More mothering than usual, pretending to throw herself into her children's lives.  
  
It was no wonder Cindy eloped.  
  
I stood in front of Greg's place, and knew this was a mistake. I needed distance. God, I ran from Roger because I needed distance from my feelings and here I was, about to walk back into the other part of my life. The part I hated more than anything.  
  
I am so fucked up.  
  
I turned to leave, when I heard the door open.  
  
"Mark?"  
  
Shit, it was Joan.  
  
I could've keep walking or told her I wasn't Mark Cohen, that she was mistaken.  
  
I turned instead.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Half an hour later, I was sitting at their dining room table, trying to avoid talking about my life - explaining why I was in Boston, clothes disheveled, holding a box of crap. I asked Greg about his life. Greg liked talking, especially about himself, so it was easy.  
  
Joan played absently with her fork the entire time.  
  
Greg told me I was welcome to stay.  
  
Later that night, I stared out the kitchen window. It was late. 2 a.m. at least. I didn't hear Joan behind me until her hand gripped my shoulder.  
  
I jumped and swung around.  
  
She was standing there in her nightgown and I had a sudden flashback.

> _"It won't work, Mark. I want this life - you're unhappy. You shouldn't be here."_

I knew I shouldn't.  
  
"I envy you, Mark," she whispered.  
  
I was shocked. I didn't say a word at first; I just looked at her.  
  
"Why? I'm just fucked up, Joan -"  
  
"No." She raised her hand up. "Maybe you're not happy, but at least you're out."  
  
I was confused. She sighed.  
  
"I said I wanted this. You were understanding." She paused. "I was wrong."  
  
She moved closer. My heart made the same leap it did when I was twenty, sitting in the student union as she brushed up against me, reading a textbook over my shoulder.  
  
"Mark." She looked at me and I wasn't prepared for her. Shit, I was taking a trip down memory lane, down the memory lane that began in Scarsdale and ended in NYC.  
  
And was slowly replaced with other memories.  
  
Then she kissed me.  
  
Joan was beautiful. She still was. Wavy red hair. Sparkling green eyes. The kind of woman any man would love to kiss.  
  
I ran.  
  
I broke the kiss and ran. Grabbed my box, my shoes, and left.

I didn't need this.  
  
I spent the night walking, trying to think of anything but Roger, Mimi and her pregnancy, NYC, Joan.  
  
I thought about change.  
  
I stood in front of the Charles River with my camera, poised to shoot. The scene was beautiful, perfect for an opening scene, the camera panning across slowly . . .  
  
I put the camera down and shut it off.  
  
The next day I bought a newspaper and looked at the want ads. A week later, I ended up at a small commercial company, doing editing work. I hadn't picked my camera up since that night at the Charles. Instead I was editing crappy local commericals that would do nothing toward a successful film career. I got the job purely from my editing skills from my only close-to-being-completed film.  
  
Several people at work said I should be marketing that film.   
  
Instead in was in a box, lacking the proper ending and to me, was a record of a time that I let my detachment, my guard, down just the slightest bit.  
  
Joan shouldn't envy me.   
  
I wasn't going to go back.  
  
Even though I was physically still, I was still running.  
  
I didn't know if I'd ever stop.  


**Chapter six coming soon . . . **


End file.
